Touch the Stars
by stormpix
Summary: America and Canada are playing in the forest one day when they meet someone they never knew existed. This encounter changes their lives and nations forever. One-shot.


_Touch the Stars_

* * *

"Canada! Let's go play!" America tugged on his brother's sleeve, trying to pull the other out of the house.

It was the mid-seventeenth century, and the Native American tribes of New England were at peace with the colonists. England had finally deemed it safe for America to play outside. America had eagerly seized upon the opportunity, and the moment their caretakers returned to Europe he began to pester his northern brother to venture into the forests of New York colony with him.

"Come on, Canada! Please!" America continued to drag his older brother out the door.

"Eh… _Je sais pas…_ Play now?" Canada responded uncertainly. "Do Papa France say yes?"

"Yes, yes, he says yes! Let's go!" America took off toward the forest. With no other choice, Canada ran after him.

The two played tag among the trees for a long time, drawing farther and farther away from America's home. They splashed through creeks and rolled down soft, grassy slopes. They climbed to the top of large rocks, pretending to be the explorers that England and France had told them about.

"I see land!" America shouted from a rock, and pointed into the distance. "Come, Canada, let us explore the new world!"

"Yes! _Allons-y!_ " Canada agreed enthusiastically. He was content to go along with whatever game America came up with. It was America's land, after all; France had taught him always to be respectful if he was the guest.

America jumped from the rock, landing with a triumphant expression on his face. Canada followed, almost landing on his brother. They ran into the forest, laughing. "Race you to Massachusetts, Canada!" America shouted gleefully.

"But I do not know where-" Canada started to protest.

"Just follow me!" America laughed. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of freedom, and so did not see the person that stepped out in front of him.

"Oof!" America ran headlong into the man. Canada skidded to a stop behind him and stared up with wide, fearful eyes. The Native American warrior stared back at the small, blond-haired boy.

America shook his head to recover from the effects of his headbutt. "Ow…"

The warrior looked the two boys over, then said something neither of them understood and made a gesture, like he was pulling something closer to him. The meaning was clear: _Follow me._

America started to protest, but Canada grabbed his arm. " _Amérique,_ listen! He can kill us. Let us follow him so we are not dead."

"Canada, we're at peace!" America argued. "He wouldn't hurt us. Besides, we can't die!"

"It would be…eh…" Canada struggled to find the word he wanted. "It would be hurt."

"It would be _painful_ ," America corrected. He thought over what Canada said. It was highly unlikely the warrior would decide to attack them, but if he did they had no way of defending themselves. The Indian tribes and the colonists had made peace, though. And America had always wanted to visit one of the tribes, but England never let him, saying the "savages" would be a bad influence. Finally his curiosity won over, and he agreed. "Alright. Let's go."

They followed the Indian through the trees for about twenty minutes before emerging into a large clearing, where the Indian village was.

The dwellings were built by a river that cut through the village, and crops were visible along the edge. Children laughed and chased each other around, much like America and Canada had done not half an hour earlier. Women chatted as they wove cloth, cooked food, or washed garments. The houses – the two young nations didn't know what else to think of them as – were unlike any other houses they had seen. In the colonies, houses were made of logs and wood panels, with windows cut in the side and wooden doors. In this village, though, the houses had frames of slender branches, thatched with straw and draped with hides. Their "doors" were simply holes in their sides.

America and Canada stared with open curiosity at the village around them. They weren't the only ones; they had attracted the attention of the Native American children. They ran up to the warrior who led them, chattering excitedly and looking the two nations over with barely concealed curiosity.

The warrior gently pushed through the children, beckoning for America and Canada to follow. He said something to the children, and, with a few disappointed looks and sounds, they dispersed and went back to their games. The warrior said something to America and Canada and made the _come along_ gesture again.

He led them to a large "house" in the center of the village. Holding open the flap that covered the entrance, he gestured for them to enter.

Inside it was dark, except for a ray of sunlight that shone down from a hole in the ceiling. An old man sat on a pile of furs, waiting for them.

The warrior entered and started talking. The old man listened with interest. As they spoke, America and Canada, with nothing better to do, cautiously took a closer look at the man.

He looked old. Not just in appearance, though. The man seemed to carry the burden of many years on him, much like England or France, though they rarely showed it. His nut-brown skin was wrinkled with age, and his dark eyes shone with wisdom. He was dressed lightly in skins, his long hair braided with beads. His body, despite his age, was still strong and well-muscled.

Finally, they finished talking. The old man dismissed the warrior, who dipped his head in respect before leaving. Then he turned to America and Canada.

"Welcome. You are the new colonies of white men, yes?"

Neither boy could hide his surprise. The old man chuckled. "Ah. You have not yet learned to speak Nation."

Canada recovered first. "W-what is Nation, eh?"

"Nation is the name for the language of nations," the man explained gently. "Only nations may speak and understand it. It cannot be taught. It cannot be learned. It only comes with maturity."

"Is that why we understand you now?" America asked.

"Yes," the man replied with an amused smile. "Nation is our natural language. It is part of you and me. Of course, that means that I, too, am a nation like you."

The man – _nation's_ words rang true. Listening to him speak, America and Canada felt his words resonating within them, like a flower of warmth blooming in their chests.

"Who are you, then?" Canada asked.

"I was once called Iroquois," the man said. A sad, wistful look came over his face. "However, in these past years, I have felt the burden of the other tribes being placed upon my shoulders. I have taken on their people, learned their customs, and overseen their land. To you, I would now be called Native America."

America frowned. "What do you mean, _placed upon my shoulders?_ I don't get it."

Native America laughed. "You do not understand now, but you will understand in the future. Just know now that I represent all the original peoples of North America. I have been waiting to meet the two of you."

"You have?" America and Canada said at the same time.

"Yes." The sad look returned. "Great change is happening in our land. The colonists' influence is growing stronger, and our traditions, while still strong now, are gradually fading away. I am dying, little ones. Without a new personification, my people will not survive."

"A new personification…" America echoed. "Wait, you mean us?"

"Yes."

"But… that's crazy!" America cried. "We can't take on the whole continent! We don't even know how big it is! How can we represent all of it?"

"You will." Native America said. "Both of you have the makings of great nations. You will be strong someday."

"But we're not ready!" America protested, ignoring Canada's attempts to hush him.

"No, but you have guardians, do you not? Older nations to guide you and help you grow." Native America stood up. Sorrow gleamed in his eyes. "I would be willing to teach you, but my time is short. I do not know when we will meet again. I must pass my legacy to you now."

"Now?" Canada whimpered. " _Mais… nous ne sommes pas prêt!"_

"Give me your hands." Native America spread his calloused palms. "Leave the rest to me."

"Will this hurt?" America asked.

"It will. You will be taking on thousands of years of history and knowledge," Native America replied. "But if you do not do it, who will?"

There was silence in the house. Then Canada put his small hands in Native America's large one.

"Canada!" America exclaimed.

Canada met his brother's gaze evenly. "I… eh… I _trust_ him," Canada said, stuttering a little. "I will do this, eh."

America stared at his brother. Determination filled his eyes. He turned and placed his hands into Native America's other hand. "If you do it, I will too. We're in this together!"

Canada cocked his head. "What does that mean?"

"I'll tell you later." Unconsciously, America wrapped his hands around Native America's fingers in nervousness. "Let's do this."

Native America nodded. He began to hum. The sound seemed to fill the room, charging the air with ancient magic. He chanted in Nation in a voice so low it was inaudible. The air hummed, the sound seeming to follow Native America's voice. The chant wove itself around the three nations, an ancient song filled with the history of a powerful, complex people. Images flashed through America and Canada's minds: people they didn't know, yet they knew; gods they had never heard of, yet they honored; wars they had never fought, yet they felt the terror of.

Native America's words were audible now, but neither colony could hear him. Their minds were being filled with new knowledge. Languages, traditions, places they had never seen that they would defend with their lives. Neither boy had hunted before, but now they knew how. They had never huddled around a fire to tell stories, but now they knew every word of every tale. The essence of the native tribes of North America swirled around them, seeping into their spirits.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was done. The song faded away as America and Canada opened their eyes. They couldn't speak; they were still in shock of what had just occurred.

Native America regarded the two young nations. He knew he had only seconds left to live. The weight of the tribes had been split and placed on the shoulders of the two young colonial regions. Pride bloomed in his chest at what they had done. It had been the first time they had ever met, yet both had agreed to take on responsibility almost no one else would be willing to bear. He was proud to call them his successors. He smiled.

"Live well, little ones. Be strong. Be brave. Be kind. And take care of my people."

America and Canada could only nod. Native America closed his eyes, finally at peace. His body shimmered. A golden light spread from his heart to cover his body, and he dissolved into golden balls of light as he shed one last tear. It splashed to the ground, its mark the only sign that he had ever been there.

Canada began to sniffle, and America wiped furiously at his eyes as the lights swirled around them like tiny fireflies. Two of the fireflies flew toward each colony and, before they could react, plunged into their chests. A searing pain ripped through their skin, just above their hearts. Then it was over, and the rest of the fireflies, the remains of Native America, flew up through the hole in the roof to join the stars now shining in the dark night sky.

The warrior that brought them here burst in, shouting something. Now, it was different from before. Now America understood every word.

"What has happened here?" the warrior cried.

"Be at peace, Swift Hawk," America replied in a steady tone. He knew the language. He knew the man and his history. "What is wrong?"

"The whole village saw stars coming out of the smoke-hole!" Swift Hawk replied. He glanced around, and a look of fear flashed on his face. "Young one, where is the Land Spirit?"

The Land Spirit was what the tribe called Native America. America knew this, and he stepped forward authoritatively. "I am the Land Spirit."

"You?" Swift Hawk regarded him doubtfully. "You are but a child."

"I am a child in body," America replied. "But I am the land in spirit."

"If that is so," Swift Hawk said, "show me."

America nodded. England was going to be annoyed at him later, but at that moment he didn't care. In one swift motion, America ripped his shirt open to reveal his heart and the scars that now gleamed faintly above it.

The marks of three tiny stars.

* * *

 _je sais pas_ \- French - I don't know

 _allons-y_ \- French - Let's go

 _Amérique -_ French - America

 _Mais… nous ne sommes pas prêt -_ French - But... we're not ready

 **The reason Canada's speech is so weird is because at this time he was still under French control. I would imagine he only knows a little English because of his brother.**

 **It's also my headcanon that Canada is older than America. This is because I think a nation is born when its people first come together or are colonized. Canada was settled before America, therefore making him the older brother.**


End file.
